My Eyes!
by Snarky64
Summary: Crack!fic for the laugh. Assorted monstrosities. First is Krobby mpreg. My apologies. Absolutely not explicit - obviously. Now updated.
1. Chapter 1

Please form an orderly queue to be Obliviated after reading.

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The challenge – a Krobby mpreg (in spite of my avowals on my profile). **For iwright**

Insert in story: 5lb sledge hammer. Football. A certain quote about an 80s pop star's clothes. Beads. Giant Squid. Plus a few picked up from the thread whilst I slept. Allen key. Button up polo shirts. Legolas.

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A house-elf was only afforded the opportunity to procreate once in its existence. Now was the time. All the portents boded. The procreation brand had appeared on Dobby. It was an odd brand, circular in shape with octagonal shapes in it. House-elf lore said it was the brand of the Foote-Ball – it denoted the time when a house-elf's master would be too interested in sport of their own to take notice of a mere house-elf. The brand came from the dawn of time – before even Quidditch had been invented – when Wizards played sport with the severed heads of Muggles.

The brand had appeared on Dobby's tummy. He was to carry an elfling by house-elf magic. The father would carry the same brand - where it would be necessary.*

Dobby wondered who the love of his life would be, as he collected all of the woollen hats Harry Potter's friend left for him around Gryffindor tower. Suddenly, his wrinkly skin prickled and his pulse quickened.

It was he ...

He turned quickly to see his suitor.

"Kreacher ... has been ... watching. Watching Dobby. Kreacher bears the matching brand," Kreacher's toad-like tones made Dobby's heart sing!

Dobby whimpered, suddenly his face was flushed and his tummy flipped. Really, that white ear hair – so unusual – so very attractive on an elf, when they were so very – bald. Except, of course (Dobby heaved a sigh redolent with unrequited love) his beloved Legolas. But Legolas was only fiction, wasn't he? Dobby could waste his life, pining for a pretty, long-haired blonde elf, couldn't he?

Kreacher swished his old, bony, veiny body into a low bow and presented Dobby with a mating gift. Dobby bounced up and down, giggling with joy. Kreacher smirked. Dobby's long, bony fingers gently peeled back the spellotape on the gift wrap of old used butcher's greaseproof paper with excitement and trepidation.

"Kreacher has presented Dobby with clothes!" Dobby squealed with joy and bounced up and down again. Kreacher's old heart missed a beat at his own lascivious thoughts, but he just managed not to fall over.

Dobby pulled out a popped collar polo shirt, bearing the crest of Hogwarts, and a set of lady clothes.

"Kreacher's sweetness should wear these first," Kreacher rasped, fingering the white and black clothes and large ribbons and passed him a Muggle photo of a woman of ... dubiousness. "The other will be your pregnancy doublet, Kreacher's delight."

"As my Kreacher wishes!" Dobby sighed dreamily, and with a backward smouldering look through his sparse eyelashes, Dobby swayed his hips as he left to get dressed in his nest.

Dobby could barely contain his excitement. His fingers trembled as he tried to work out how to drape the cropped top across his shoulder, and how to put the ripped stockings and boots on. He just managed the tiered skirt – there certainly were a lot of clothes! Then there was this large scarf to tie into a huge bow on his head. Of course he had no hair to backcomb. He had to do the best he could with what he had. He made sure the cropped top showed off his breeding brand. There was also a set of beads, which seemed oddly slimy. Dobby wrapped them like a set of pearls around his neck.

Meanwhile, Kreacher had reached Dobby's nest and was pacing outside.

"Kreacher is waiting ..." Kreacher croaked impatiently. At his time of life, any rush of blood was definitely bad for his constitution. His impatient ardour was so great, he considered Summoning a 5lb sledgehammer to break down the door to his nirvana, so near to the crest of his passion was he. But – no – soft! He must not frighten his Dobby. He Summoned instead his set of skeleton Allen keys and started to work at undoing the door that separated his aching elfhood from his one true precious.*

"Dobby is ready for Kreacher," a smoky voice announced from inside the nest, just as Kreacher finished undoing the door. Kreacher's body began to tremble in anticipation.

He stood at the open door* and took in the glorious vision before him. _Ding dong._

"Kreacher would like to see Madonna's clothes on the floor, Kreacher would." Kreacher rubbed his bony hands together as his tongue lolled out to one side and his fingers toyed with his pillowcase then moved tentatively to the beads around Dobby's neck ...

_Scene fades to black (scene has fainted)._

_Three months later_

Dobby lay, exhausted but radiant with joy as Winky delivered their precious elfling by house-elf magic*. Kreacher croaked back his own tears. He must be strong for his Dobby. They had perpetuated their line. For Kreacher, his time for his head to be mounted on the wall of Grimmauld Place would follow soon. But first, he must teach his elfling all the house-elf lore and best household maintenance and how to spot a mudblood and blood traitor – all skills that would stand their elfling in good stead in times to come.

But first things first. A godfather needed to be chosen. He didn't think anything of the house-elves Dobby had mentioned so far. Perhaps another magical creature?

"Inkko, the Giant Squid," Kreacher suggested. "Inkko is a pure-ichor. The only one fit for our elfling." Dobby nodded happily. He knew asking for Harry Potter to be godfather would never be accepted. Such a shame.

"What shall Dobby and Kreacher be calling our elfling?" Dobby said, blushing and fluttering his almost bald eyelids at the father of his elfling.

"The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black does not hold with the tradition of idiot names ending in 'y'. House-elves are named for what they be!"

Kreacher picked up and swaddled the beloved bundle in silver-cleaning rags, the elfling's ears already full of the finest white down. A small tear welled in Kreacher's old, rheumy eyes, as Dobby clutched Kreacher's wrinkled old skin hanging off his flaccid arm muscles in maternal pride.

Kreacher held the elfling aloft to the stars for which his masters had always been named.

"This be Beeest!" Kreacher announced with pride, and scowled as the Dogstar winked cheekily.

_Fin_

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**AN:**

* I did nearly spell this out, but scared myself too badly with the appalling word that nudged against my sanity, and deleted it

* Do you know how hard it was not to let Kreacher become Gollum? I suppose I caved.

* You have no idea how many times I had to re-write that!

* I cannot possibly construct an internal logic for house-elf mpreg in one night (or even at all).

My apologies – this really isn't the sort of thing I would normally write. Written out of dire boredom due to the glut of football on the TV last night.


	2. Part Deux

MY EYES! PART DEUX: **Dumblegorian**

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**Cue:** When less is more and detail is not required.

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The centaur reared on his hind legs to see Dumbledore, standing there, the only wizard that dared enter the centaurs' domain. Bane recalled his sire telling him that this wizard had once had a flowing auburn mane, beloved of the centaurs, although it was silver now.

"And now you stand before us and request we release this evil woman before we have exhausted her. What will you give us by way of recompense?" Bane roared.

"Ah well," Dumbledore sighed taking in the excited state of Magorian, "sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good." He unclasped his periwinkle robe and let it drop to the floor ...

FIN


	3. Part the Third: Mollymort

Following a thread on whether Molly was powerful enough to have defeated Bellatrix. Any mother will tell you: Hells Ya. To be included: Voldemort's POV. Voldemort is not allowed to kill Arthur. Football. Molly's clothes sense. Knitting. Film dialogue must be referenced. Greyback.

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MY EYES! Part the Third:** Hugs & Stew** –**A Mollymort Romance**

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"THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN! DINNER'S READY! THERE'S NO NOTE! YOU MIGHT HAVE DIED!"

Molly Weasley stood on the doorstep of the Burrow with her care-worn hands on her rounded hips, her ample bosom that he so admired – well, both of them actually - heaving. She stood there in all her red-headed glory, her brown eyes glinting with protective anger and her nostrils flaring.

Tom had reached an epiphany about what constituted a real pure-blood woman when he had witnessed Molly slicing and dicing his Trixiebella like vegetables for stew (oh! and Molly's stew was a thing for someone to die to make a Horcrux for!). A real woman! How lies had fed Trixie's legend. She was all black leather, laces and backcombed hair that was a complete nightmare to run his fingers through, and pampered soft hands. Before him stood Molly, resplendent in her vividly floral robe with multi-coloured wrap-around cardigan that she'd knitted herself.

He closed his eyes and hitched his breath against the memory: what this woman couldn't do with knitting needles! It was only when he had seen the knitting patterns that he had realised that she shared the same source of fiendish power as Dumbledore.

He was so glad he'd made a Horcrux of the Elder Wand when he'd disposed of Snape. Potter had, very obligingly, replaced the wand in Dumbledore's tomb and the Ministry had given every protection known to Wizardkind to prevent the wand being stolen again. The last fragment of his soul would be safe – FOREVAH!

He was quite pleased really how that had turned out. Who'd have thought ...

"WELL?" Molly tapped her sensibly-shod foot on the stone step, her arms now crossed, fingers drumming impatiently on her beautifully rounded upper arms that he ...

"THOMAS!" Molly barked, snapping him out of his heated reverie.

"I wouldn't have _died_. We were just playing football. We would have been back sooner, only Greyback ran off with the ball," Tom pouted and then pointed an accusatory long white finger at the large furry fellow to his left, who scuffed his shoes into the dirt, too embarrassed to look into Molly's eyes.

"LOOK - AT THOSE NAILS!" Molly squawked as she grabbed his pointing finger. "You can't possibly do your chores around the house with nails that length! How many times must I tell you!" she admonished, shaking her head reprovingly at him, followed by that indulgent smile that made his chest organ that pumped blood flutter strangely as he relished the calloused touch of her _capable _hands.

"Are your little friends staying for tea, dear?" Molly bestowed her ravishing smile on the four death eaters he had been playing five-a-side football with against the Order. He bristled with possessive fury, the Killing Curse almost spilling from his lips as he saw his minions moving to accept.

"NO!" he boomed and then remembered how she hated it when he _'created'_. "No, they already have tea arranged." The men shuffled their feet, grumbling under their breath, "best stew ever" and "cream teas to make a Horcrux for" and other such mutterings of discontent, but he stared his best homicidal lunatic stare at each and every one until they shuffled away.

"Bye bye, boys!" Molly called, waving them good-bye as they left the Burrow's wards and Disapparated. "That Fenrir's a funny lad, isn't he?" she wittered. "Had a Krup that smelt like him when I was a child ... he used to _create_ so at bath time ..."

He glided in after her – domestic goddess that she was –

"Ah ah ah!" she admonished him kindly, wagging her forefinger at him. "If you won't wear shoes, use the bucket to wash your feet. They're covered in mud!"

He drew his wand to _scourgify_ his feet.

"Now what have you been told, Tom?" Molly rebuked him again. "Hmmm?"

"No magic until I've put on weight," he griped, his bottom lip protruding.

"That's right," Molly nodded encouragingly. "It uses far too much energy and you're far too peaky. All skin and bone too! And I need to put those eye drops in again," she muttered as she stood on the tip of her toes to check his eyes and referred to _The Witch's Compendium of Everyday Healing_ that lay open by the sink. "They're still far too bloodshot."

As she administered the eye drops to him, pressing her voluptuous form to him, he inhaled her womanly scent deeply, through his slitted nostrils and over his acute olfactory senses that his years of nurturing from Nagini had given him. The scent of a woman: talcum powder, _Eau de Nil_ and stew. It was a heady, heady scent. Molly Riddle – Lady Voldemort (a wizard could dream, couldn't he?) was an intoxicating woman.

Once he was clean, and Molly had inspected his hands and feet, and cast a cutting charm on all of his nails with a good-natured _harumph_, she served him a bowl of stew and he told her about the game and how they'd beaten the Order's five-a-side team.

"_Without_ magic?" she chided.

"I didn't use my wand once," Tom protested, as he Occluded all the wandless magic he'd performed against Shacklebolt in goal.

"Thomas ..."

Uh-oh. Was she such a good Legilimens? Would she middle-name him?

"Marvolo ..."

Oh no.

"Riddle. Do you think I was born yesterday? My brothers would have shown you a trick or two and I've brought up seven children, all of whom are better liars than you when they were still in nappies! Now ..."

Tom sat, his shoulders hunched as the diatribe washed over him, flooding him with satisfaction. Diatribe meant correction. He rather liked correction. Correction was followed by hugs and stew. Trixie had never understood those final ingredients need to be supplied by herself – no-one wanted hugs and stew from a house-elf!

He apologised profusely when he sensed her diatribe was finished and an apology was called for. As he wiped a slice of her homemade bread around the bowl, to her good-humoured _tut_, he noticed her cleaning pinafore hanging from the door. He gulped. She smiled.

From the dresser, she took a large sheath of parchment.

"Now, dear. Would you just look over these for me and put your signature," Molly thumbed through the sheath and magically marked of six places for his signature, "there ... and there ... and there ..."

He watched her adoringly. Could he deny her anything?

_Contract for Product Endorsement for You-No-Poo_

_Between Weasleys Wizard Wheezes (U.K.) Co. Ltd. (1) and Thomas Marvolo Riddle (aka Lord Voldemort) (2)_

He felt thunderous anger churn in his gut, rising like a volcano, ready to erupt in fury ...

"You promised ..." Molly said, head cocked to one side in remonstration. He knew he'd have to go along with this. He had been indirectly responsible for the death of a couple of Prewetts and one of her sons. But really, it wasn't as if she didn't have another exactly the same. Not that he dared ever say that to her, mind you. Her offspring with the man he'd ensured had been promoted to Minister of Magic to keep out of his hair – erm – his way were appallingly dear to her and there seemed to be nothing he could do to displace them no matter how hard he tried. When he did try, she turned The Weapon on him. He was pleased that none of his death eaters had ever learnt of The Weapon or his rise to almost-power on those two occasions would have been cut even shorter.

He read the terms of the endorsement and signed his name with the blood quill Molly had found at the back of the Prewett vault. She smiled and patted his hand.

"Good boy," she said kindly. "I'm so pleased you agreed. If you hadn't, I would have been so ..."

Tom flinched – here it was ...

"..._disappointed_."

She kissed the crown of his bald pate, and wrapped her cleaning pinafore around herself and picked up the scouring brush.

Tom trembled in anticipation.

There was no doubt in his mind: he had always loved a dominant pure-blood woman.

**FIN**


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